


Poetry Gay, Theatre Gay

by benevolentmonolithicc



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Romantic Fluff, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benevolentmonolithicc/pseuds/benevolentmonolithicc
Summary: An poetry gay and a theatre gay walk into a Scottish Safe house...
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 119





	Poetry Gay, Theatre Gay

Don’t ever read your boyfriend the poetry you write about him. Just...don't. Sure, he’ll grin at you, blush at the right times, and every now and then smile to himself and whisper gently _oh Martin_. And that’s nice. Really nice. Better than nice even. But it will set a dangerous precedent.

If you read your boyfriend your lovey-dovey poetry, then it will be his turn to share when you’re done. And you love his voice, and you love him, but you do not love the works of Shakespeare. You love how into it he gets, the way he smiles at you in between verses of iambic pentameter, and how you can almost see the skull of poor Yorick as he recites. But you _hate_ Shakespeare.

Now if your younger self could see you, he would be disappointed. You swore that you weren’t going to date any theatre kids. After the...incident you were rather put off by them. In all fairness, you hadn’t known when you’d fallen for Jon.  He had been a closeted theatre kid then, and while you should have recognized the signs, you were too busy being lost in his eyes, and cheekbones, and the way he made you feel. But it’s too late now. You’re in love, and so is he. You know it’s real when you're sitting through the monologue that put you to sleep in Year 13 with an adoring smile.

He hates poetry, or at least he did. He could be humoring you of course, but he looks so happy what you read to him.  And that look in his eyes when you stumble on a particularly mushy line, or that laugh he does when you get all faux serious can’t be faked.

You think that he’s got a similar effect on you. The way that you’ve made him like poetry, well, you’re starting to like some of his theatre. He performs these monologues, and you’ve never heard them before, but he’s clearly listened to them over and over. He’s fallen in love with these plays, and you’ve fallen in love with him. More so when he’s deep in concentration, his voice so different and in character, and yet still so him.

And when he gets bad, and you mean really bad, so bad that bad isn’t even the right word to describe it, you ask him to perform. To recite something, anything. You figure it’s sort of like a statement in a sense. It certainly energizes him in the same way. And it energizes you too, a bit. Seeing him so happy, so enthralled, so engaged, so carefree. It helps you keep going.

If you read your boyfriend your poetry, it’ll keep him going too.

* * *

Don’t date a poet. You promised yourself you wouldn’t, told yourself that you hated poetry, and in all fairness, you still sort of do.  Just not his. You’ve gone soft, softer than pillows, and cotton candy, and your poet boyfriend’s hair. Worst of all, you can’t even be mad at him as he reads you what he writes. It’s rubbish. He’s not a very good poet, though he’s gotten better since you first read his work all those years ago. But you don’t care that its rubbish. You care that it’s his and that it’s yours, and he’s yours most of all. And you're his.  Clearly. You’re letting him read you poetry.

You’ve spent so much of your life hating things.  Hating poetry, hating poets, hating the very notion of such an emotional, non-literal art form. But you’re done with that now. You’re here to love, love your boyfriend, love his poetry, love his bad, emotion-laden metaphors. And you do. And even if you didn’t want to, the look on his face as he reads it to you is enough to get you through anything. You never want him to stop looking like that, never want him to stop looking at _you_ like that. And if the cost is poetry? Well, that’s hardly a cost at all.

And sometimes, when you’re curled up on the couch together, feeling every rise and fall of his chest and the warmth of his arms around you, he’ll whisper poetry into your ear. It’s quiet, the whole moment is quiet, and the poetry is just for you and him, and no one else. You hold him closer and listen with all of your might, praying you don’t miss a single word. And when he’s done, when his quiet words no longer reverberate through your bones, you whisper to him too.

You’re not very good at love, and everything you know about it, all the big romantic gestures you’ve filed away in your brain, you’ve learned from the theatre. Your grandmother used to take you, and you were always rapt by all of it, but none more so than the love confessions. You’ve always loved love, and those scenes always moved you in a way you could never describe.  So you memorized them and internalized them, and when your boyfriend’s whispered words have turned to nothing but breathing, you recite them to him, your head on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat quicken, his hand slowly moving to hold yours and you relish it. You relish him. And when you look up at his face and see your shining, loving expression mirrored by him, you know he relishes you too.

Maybe  do read your boyfriend your poetry, and maybe do date a poet. And definitely relish every minute of it. He will.

**Author's Note:**

> This had been kicking around on my computer unfinished for like a month now, so enjoy the finished product!


End file.
